


Festive Spirit

by maxcellwire



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Christmas, Historical, M/M, Various other characters turn up throughout
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 21:26:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2826665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxcellwire/pseuds/maxcellwire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of Christmases (on hold until next Christmas).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Not-Quite-Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I probably should have started this a while ago, but I suppose this just means I can extend the Christmas period for a while...  
> The first chapter is not technically Christmas. Not exactly a great way to start a Christmas fic, but I'm a classicist and I couldn't help myself. Please forgive me.  
> Britannia appears 4 years old.  
> Gallia appears 8 years old.

“You know, Britannia, your little town looks very sweet all dressed up like this.”

“It’s _Albion_ ,” the boy snapped in clumsy Latin, “and I’ll have you know Eboracum is a city.” Gallia laughed lightly, putting a hand on his companion’s shoulder only to have it shaken off again.

“Don’t tell me you’re still bitter about that. It’s been over two hundred years since Julius Caesar first came here and gave you that name; you should have accepted your fate by now.”

“Accepted my fate as the subordinate of an empire who hardly cares about my existence? Yes, that sounds absolutely fine. I’ll just lie down and let him walk all over me, shall I?”

“Don’t be so stupid. He’s here, isn’t he? How could you possibly say he doesn’t care about you, you ridiculous little boy.”

Britannia _harrumph_ ed and turned away from his companion, screwing his nose up and folding his little arms across his chest. From his position by the river he was near the heart of the celebrations, and many a merrymaker passed by, wearing a felt cap and chattering rowdily. There were boughs of laurel and holly draped over most of the buildings, and bright candles flickered on doorsteps and shop fronts.

“You have so much anger for such a little boy,” Gallia mused with a teasing smile, studying the furious flush on Britannia’s cheeks. He really was a mess, with his choppy hair and dirty tunic. It was a wonder Rome put up with him, really. “I’ve heard of temper tantrums, but I’ve never seen a four year old get so genuinely cross. It’s quite fascinating.”

“Shut _up_ , Gallia. What are you doing here anyway?”

“Why, everybody’s here! That’s what happens when you become the centre of the Empire. I think I saw Egypt earlier, would you believe? She came all this way, from her lovely home that you and I can only dream of, to visit your rainy moors. I bet she’s disappointed.”

Britannia scowled. “I don’t care if she’s disappointed or not. If she doesn’t like the weather, she can leave. In fact, you all can. I don’t want any of you here. I wish Rome would just go back to his stupid city already, if he loves it so much.”

“Where are your manners, Britannia?” Gallia clasped a delicate hand over his mouth, giggling into his palm. “I could be celebrating with Hispania, who’s always happy to see me and doesn’t say such horrible things, but instead I am here with you. And these are the thanks I receive?”

Britannia turned to look at Gallia and found himself faced with wide blue eyes and a pitiful pout. He gnawed at the inside of his cheeks as he gazed upon that face, and then he looked down into his lap, twisting his fingers together. It was true that Gallia had come to spend time with him when he was under no obligation to, and he was sure that he would have had a much better time with Hispania, who was so pretty and friendly and kind to everyone.

Still, he hadn’t asked Gallia to come. He hadn’t asked any of them to come, but now Rome’s emperor was here, so everybody else had come dutifully traipsing after him. And now the wretched man was filling Britannia’s city with people, with soldiers stationed at every street corner. He was always talking of war, war with Britannia’s brother over the wall, and it made the boy’s hands tremble and his stomach twist at the thought of it.

Sometimes it was rather nice to have a friend you could trust.

“Well,” Britannia began, clearing his throat and averting his eyes, “I do actually have something for you.”

Gallia clapped his hands together excitedly, eyes lit up. “What’s this? You got me a present for Sigillaria?”

“Only because it’s tradition! Don’t pull that stupid face at me!” He fumbled in his thick cloak’s pocket for the item and nibbled his lip when his fingers closed around it.

“That is the face one pulls when they are happy, just in case you do not know what happiness is.”

“Of course I know!”

“And I am _very_ happy right now. I did not expect this of you, my little friend, and it’s a very pleasant surprise. Who would’ve thought you could be generous?”

“R-right. Well. Here.” He held out his hand, revealing a small wooden carving. Gallia picked it up carefully and rested it on one palm, raising it to eye level and tracing his fingertips over the tiny details marked out in the dark wood.

“It’s a faery?” Britannia nodded. “Who made this?”

“I did.”

“Really?” Gallia looked astonished. “It’s so sweet! I love it! Thank you very much, Britannia.”

“W-well, I-“

“And now my gift for you.” He leant in, his chin-length hair falling around his face, and pressed fleeting kisses to Britannia’s soft cheeks, which reddened at his touch.

“Stop that!” Britannia spluttered, trying to shove Gallia away from him but not strong enough to succeed. “That’s disgusting, stop it!”

“If you were not so cute I would strangle you,” Gallia grumbled, pulling away from him and shaking his head in despair. “Still, I suppose it can’t be helped. You are still so young, it’s no wonder that you don’t understand.”

“I’m not _that_ young! I’m at least a few hundred years old,” Britannia protested, sliding off his seat so that he could stand up and show off his height. Gallia stood up as well and easily rested his arm on the boy’s blonde head, leaning on him and grinning.

“How big and strong you are, Britannia! You will make a fearsome country one day, I’m sure.”

“You’re right I will! And then I’ll beat you senseless, just you watch me.” Gallia rolled his eyes and removed his arm from its squirming perch, turning the carving over in his hands and peering at its elfin face. Britannia huffed as he returned to his seat beside him and kicked his legs restlessly, dragging his feet over the ground.

“Stop doing that or you’ll scuff your boots.”

“Gallia, when will I grow up?”

The older boy was so startled by the question that it took him a few moments to respond. “What?”

“I’m still so small. You’re bigger and you can help your people, but I can’t do anything for mine. Rome says I’m too young to be on the battlefield, but my people are out there fighting. I feel so helpless.” Gallia stared at him, noting the way his lips were tugged down sadly, and resisted the urge to put an arm around him comfortingly.

“I don’t think you would want to be on the battlefield anyway. It is not pleasant. No place for children.”

“But I’m not a child! I’ve seen it before. My people revolt against the Romans and I have to stand back and watch while they’re killed, because I’m too small to fight for myself.”

“It would not matter if you were on the battlefield or not. Your people are no match for the Roman military, and you would only be crushed with them were you to try and fight. It is safer for you this way, believe me. Even if it hurts to watch your leaders fall and submit, even if the air in Rome feels like it’s poisonous, that is what you must do.”

Britannia turned to him with inquiring eyes, never having heard Gallia speak so gravely before, and found the older boy staring out across the river, his jaw clenched.

“You mean...?” Gallia nodded.

“I was not much older than you when Caesar invaded. He ravaged the land and razed cities full of people to the ground. My men put up a good fight, but becoming a Roman province was inevitable. It seems there is no escape from the world’s greatest power, yet I hated it just as much as you do. Still, what’s done is done. All we can do is watch and hope.”

Britannia’s gaze returned to his lap as he pondered Gallia’s words. It wasn’t fair that he couldn’t do anything, because he felt everything that happened within him. The recent rebellions had torn him to shreds, yet the Roman leaders had still expected him to sit back obediently and cope on his own.

“Come, now,” Gallia said, jumping up from his seat and tugging Britannia up with him, a bright smile replacing his concerned frown, “this is not exactly festive talk, is it? I would like to go and see some more of the Saturnalia celebrations, and I’m taking you with me, whether you like it or not.” He set off for the centre of the city, allowing the joyful atmosphere to weave its way into his lungs.

“I’ll grow up soon, Gallia,” Britannia protested, stumbling as he hurried to keep pace. “Then you won’t be strong enough to pull me around wherever you want. One day soon.”

“Yes, yes, whatever, little boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saturnalia was the Roman festival of the winter solstice. Originally a one day celebration, it was eventually extended to a whole week. Many of our modern Christmas rituals have their origins in Saturnalia, and the Sigillaria is especially relevant, which was a day of gift-giving held on 23rd December.  
> Eboracum was the Roman settlement at what is now York, in northern England. The Roman emperor Septimius Severus moved there in 208AD, so it became the heart of the Empire until his death in 211. In summer 209 he waged war against the Caledonians in what is now Scotland, and in the years prior to his arrival there had been quite a few rebellions and uprisings against Roman rule across Britannia, especially in the north.  
> Gallia is referring to the Gallic Wars of 58-50BC. The Romans were very cruel to the Gauls, destroying many cities and taking all the people as slaves. Vercingetorix was a Gallic leader who eventually submitted to Julius Caesar.  
> I'll stop nerding out now haha


	2. A Christmas of Potential

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know very little about this period of history so please bear with me if I've made mistakes. I hope it's not too dreadful.  
> Francia - appears 13/4  
> England - doesn't actually appear in this chapter, but is still about 8  
> Bavaria - is Austria. I know Bavaria is now a region of Germany, but the country of Austria has its origins in the Duchy of Bavaria, and I needed his haughtiness in this. He's probably about 4 too. I've never known such bitchy 4 year olds.

Some time later and he found himself in St Peter’s Basilica in Rome, celebrating Christmas Mass at the behest of the Pope. He was Francia then, and he had his first taste of power, growing bigger and stronger every day and feeling the benefits. The other countries there with him, sitting in the pews and waiting patiently for the ceremony to begin, were so small in comparison.

Francia smiled to himself and leant against one of the huge, engraved columns, admiring the beauty of the place. It really was magnificent, and the colonnaded atrium brought back hazy memories of his first time in Rome, when he himself was small and being led by a tanned man in a toga.

But the Roman Empire was long dead, and now the Eternal City was in Francia’s hands. If only everybody were there to see it.

Still, he did have _some_ company, at least, so he might as well entertain himself with them. He nudged the boy beside him and smirked when his little hair curl bounced.

“What do you want?” the boy snapped, lips drawn tightly into a thin line. Francia was suddenly reminded of another time, with grass threaded between his fingers and fresh air in his lungs and... _rain._ It had been so very long since he had last seen the other, and the distance that had formed between them was regrettable.

“That’s no way to speak to your big brother, is it, cara Bavaria?” he laughed, twirling a lock of golden hair around his finger. Bavaria scoffed.

“You’re not my brother. Just because I’m part of your Empire doesn’t mean that you have to baby me, so don’t even think of it.”

 _Yes, remarkably similar._ Francia sighed dramatically, searching for somebody more pleasant to speak to and coming up blank.

“What is it with other countries and having no manners?” he grumbled to himself, tightening the bow that kept his hair in place. “Must I be the one to teach them all? Well, as leader of Europe I suppose it is my duty to help others.”

Bavaria snorted and turned his nose up haughtily, facing forwards again and making a show of ignoring the other. Francia sighed yet again and rested his chin on his elbow. Why had Bavaria sat next to him? Why couldn’t it have been Frisia, or Saxony? Instead he had this child who was already too big for his boots, despite being a mere province of Francia’s own Empire.

Still, it didn’t matter. The events that were to unfold that day would make them listen to Francia once and for all. He felt somewhat guilty for not telling Charlemagne their plans, but the Lombard Kingdom had urged him to keep the secret, and Francia couldn’t resist those wide eyes.

His King had probably put two and two together by now anyway. The crown was resting on the altar, encrusted with more jewels than had ever been seen before and glimmering in the light of the candles. It was impossible to ignore, drawing the attention of everybody present, and Francia had no doubt that the King would already have fled if he had been so disturbed at the thought of what was to come.

The Mass began as it always did, with prayers and readings and bowed heads. He had been through this many a time before, knew all the words off by heart and had perfected the timing of rising and kneeling. Still, the anticipation that coursed through his veins at what was about to occur made his hands tremble, and he was acutely aware of Bavaria’s sneering face watching his every movement.

And at last, the moment came. The King made for the altar to pray as the congregation knelt in the pews, and Francia peeked out through his eyelashes to watch the scene unfold. Sweeping his robes to the side, Charlemagne dropped steadily to his knees, bowing his head and clasping his hands as he waited for the Pope to begin the prayer.

There was silence throughout the whole basilica as they waited, and Francia could hear his heart pounding in his ears. _Any second now._

“Hear our prayer, Lord,” the Pope began, his rich voice echoing throughout the large atrium and calling everybody to listen, “and those of your servant.” He reached for the crown on the altar, balancing it precariously on his palms as he lifted it up to the heavens, and the light from the windows made it seem as though the gold had been touched by God himself. “Look, Almighty God, with a serene gaze on this, your glorious servant.”

And before Charlemagne could lift his head and look up in confusion, the Pope brought the magnificent crown down on his head, nestling it in his thick hair, and the congregation gasped together. Francia felt a gleeful smile spread over his lips, noting the way the crown fit Charlemagne as though he had been born to wear it, destined for a future so great. His fingertips tingled with the tease of power.

“Through whom honour and glory are yours through infinite ages of ages. Amen,” the Pope continued, ignoring the King’s shocked and silent protests. “Charlemagne, King of the Franks, I pronounce you Imperator Romanorum.”

And this, oh _this_ , was what it felt like to be powerful. It was as though Francia had the whole world in his palm, and as Charlemagne rose and the congregation watched in awe, he envisioned a future of growth. He could be as big as the original Roman Empire – bigger, even – and he would explore vast lands and receive the riches of the world. He would find Hispania again, and subdue the tribes in the east. He would ward off the northern barbarians and spread Christianity across his Empire until finally, finally, he would return to that rainy little island and make the feral boy his own.

Who could want anything more for Christmas?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'cara' is 'dear' in Latin. It's rather difficult to write France's character for a time before the existence of French...  
> Charlemagne (aka Charles the Great) was King of the Franks and is sometimes known as the Father of Europe due to reuniting many of the countries that used to be in the Roman Empire. Pope Leo III crowned him Emperor of the Romans on Christmas Day 800AD. It is said that Charlemagne had no idea this was going to happen and actually was averse to it, but other sources say there was no way he was unaware of the Pope's plan. Either way, it allowed him to have power of much of Western Europe, so it was a pretty good thing to happen.  
> I got the coronation ritual from Wikipedia so I'm 99% sure that it's wrong. The rituals evolved a lot throughout the period of the Holy Roman Empire, so it's difficult to say which elements were part of the original and which weren't. Sorry about that.  
> England doesn't appear in this one because he was pretty tied up with those blasted Vikings at the time. The attack on Lindisfarne had occurred only 7 years before, and the next century would only bring more struggles.


	3. A Bitter Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how content I am with this. I feel like France's 'Some things never change, Sherlock' is becoming relevant. I can't remember what I have and haven't written before and it's only 4000 words. Sigh.  
> Also, we're back in York, in 1069 this time. I really ought to make a visit since so much has happened there.  
> England - appears 11/12  
> France - appears 15

England didn’t want to see the King. He would rather anything than see him, would rather face a thousand men alone than have to watch William parading around his city for one more second. It was sickening, the way he walked so proudly with the crown adorning his head, pouting at the peasants he had forced out of their land thanks to his massacres.

England knew the King would be looking for him eventually; he had already mentioned that he would like the nation to be present at his Christmas dinner, no doubt so that he could shove his victory in England’s face and laugh as he got angry. It seemed as though England was his favourite form of entertainment and, despite the brutal treatment given to the people on his land, the nation himself was kept in the lap of luxury. He had French lessons every day, was dressed in fine clothes and treated to lavish banquets, dining with the highest of nobles.

England _hated_ it.

How could he sit there and pretend to enjoy their company while his people were dying in crushed rebellions, suffering as the tyrant marched through his lands and claimed them as his own? It was unacceptable, and he had made his thoughts known on the subject multiple times, but the King only laughed and ordered him to spend more time with Normandy.

The half-nation was even worse. It only made sense, since Normandy was France’s cousin and so would naturally be extremely irritating, but he was even more smug about their new position than his King was. It was a rare thing for such a small part of the world to have such power, and Normandy seemed determined to lord it over his new subordinate at every opportunity.

“Still a savage little child, I see. Nothing much has changed since we last saw each other.”

England’s hands curled reflexively into fists and he gritted his teeth, his internal grumbling fading into white noise as he braced himself.

“Go away, France.”

“I don’t think you’re really in a position to be speaking to me in such a way, Angleterre,” France teased, skipping to England’s side as though he were a child and not over a thousand years old. England ignored him and increased his pace, hiking up the hill to get as far away from the city as possible. There was a small forest nearby, and there would be no way for William to find him once he’d hidden himself among the trees. Perhaps he could even call on some friends to help disguise him, if only France would just leave.

“You know, I didn’t mean not speaking to me at all,” France continued, his tone disapproving, “It’s quite rude.” England bit his tongue so that he wouldn’t reply and continued stalking in the direction of the forest. There was no use fighting with France, not when the other nation was so much bigger and stronger than him. It seemed to England as though he would forever be trying to catch up, but was thwarted at every opportunity.

“I see. You’re giving me the cold shoulder for aiding Normandy. Well, I suppose that was to be expected,” France murmured. He inspected his nails as he walked, his longer legs letting him easily keep pace with the other. “Still, what could I have done? He’s my cousin, and I felt it was my duty to help him.” He glanced over to see that England’s jaw was clenched, his eyes firmly set on the land in front of him, and smirked. “It’s not my fault that you were too weak to prevent him from conquering you.”

Something shattered, and England whirled around, yelling, “I was not weak! I was not!”

France watched his reaction and noted the way his slim frame trembled and his cheeks flushed with pent up fury, scanning the purple bruises that covered his skin and the angry red scrapes adorning his knuckles. There was something in his green eyes that France hadn’t noticed before, a spark that betrayed the truth depth of his anger beyond the childish tantrums from a few centuries ago. He supposed that was what years of sustained invasions did to a nation.

His smirk grew, a predatory grin spreading across his face as the younger nation took the bait.

“I suppose you fought very hard, didn’t you?”

“Harder than you, I’ll bet!”

“You know, Angleterre, I don’t doubt that for a second. I had little to lose in that battle. But you, you were fighting for everything, weren’t you? I bet you were positively fierce, wielding your bow and arrow and terrorising them all. I wonder, how many Normans did you kill that day?”

France already knew the answer. He had seen England on the battlefield, and England had seen him, the two locking gazes across the field of men, and in the haze of battle the only thing France could think was that it was a shame he wasn’t the first to see this sight.

England scowled at the taunting, knuckles whitening, thick eyebrows drawn tightly together. “Shut _up_ , France.”

“Not enough, obviously.”

“You-!”

“Not enough to keep yourself from falling into his hands, anyway. Tell me, how did it feel to watch little Harold die on the battlefield?”

England was tellingly silent, staring at his shoes.

“Slain by Norman weapons, allowing his country to fall into the enemy’s hands.”

England stiffened, inhaling sharply and refusing to look up and see the knowing look in France’s eyes.  It wasn’t fair that France was always one step ahead of him, wasn’t fair that he treated the other like this. It wasn’t _fair._

“How did it feel? Tell me, Angleterre.” France was so close that England could feel his breath on his cheeks when he spoke, his hair brushing his skin, and he shuddered away as his resolve snapped.

“It was awful, okay? It felt like the worst thing that’s ever happened to me and I hated every second of it and still do,” he shouted, hot tears pricking in the corners of his eyes and pants escaping from his lips. He looked up into France’s face and growled, bringing his arms tightly into his body as he spat, “Are you satisfied now?”

Without waiting for an answer, he took off, sprinting away over the fields before France had even processed his disappearance. A lone tear started to streak down his cheek and he wiped it away savagely, feet pounding into the ground to let the whole world vibrate with his fury. He was _not_ weak, and he would show them all, would show William and Normandy and France just how strong he could be, he _would._

France watched him go for a minute as he pondered his words, and then groaned, knowing that he would only be asked to go searching for the boy later on. He began to run after him, eyes focussed on the dark green cloak that flapped about in England’s wake as he called after him.

“Angleterre! Angleterre, for goodness’ sake, come back here!”

He was catching up swiftly, and England glanced over his shoulder and wanted to scream and tear his hair out because once again he was losing to France and it _wasn’t fair._

The older nation slammed into him just before he could reach the forest, his weight nearly knocking England to the ground as he struggled to get out of his grasp. He pounded his fists on France’s back, desperately scrambling out of his hold as France dragged him away from the forest.

“ _Merde_ , _don’t pull my hair_ , that hurts!”

“Get off me!” He squirmed as France tightened his grip, feeling the ground fall away as he was lifted into the air and thrown over France’s shoulder. He squawked indignantly, limbs flailing. “Put me down this instant, idiot!”

“Non, not until you promise you won’t run away again.”

“Never! I hate you, I hate you, get _off_!” In his new position, he was able to tug France’s clothes and kick at his arms, making the older nation wince when he was struck in the face. He pinched the skin of England’s legs and the other whined in pain in response.

“Running away will do you no good. You have to stay here and face the world instead of running off to your faeries all the time; otherwise you’ll never accomplish anything!”

And just like that England stopped his fidgeting, letting his muscles relax as he muttered angrily to himself, his head swaying somewhere near the small of France’s back. Once he was satisfied that he wouldn’t have to do any more running, France dumped his neighbour on the ground and tried to save the state of his hair as he paced in front of him.

“Now, is that really the way to treat someone at Christmas?”

“Christmas means nothing anymore,” England muttered bitterly, glaring at the grass he was shredding. “What’s the point? I can’t stand it.”

“Goodness!” France exclaimed, pretty blue eyes wide with shock. “If the Pope could hear you now!”

Somewhere deep inside of him, buried beneath several layers of superiority and loyalty to his leaders back on the continent, France felt a shred of pity for the other nation, remembering when they had both been small and helpless. He would never admit it aloud, but that small amount alone was enough to soften his expression slightly. He sat down beside England and hugged his legs to his chest.

“Battle is not what you thought it would be, is it?” England shook his head mutely. “Didn’t I tell you so, all those years ago? Even when you’re the victor, you still have to pay a heavy price.”

“I don’t care about the price. I can make sacrifices if I need to, because winning in the end makes it all worth it.” His eyes shone as he remembered the thrill in his veins when Alfred stood victorious at Ethandun, the invincibility he’d felt as Aethelstan was crowned and everything came together at last. Just the memory of it was enough to set his heart alight again, and even Normandy couldn’t take that away from him. “You can’t tell me that you don’t enjoy it when you win a battle, when France is the victor over another nation.”

And how many battles had he already won and lost? How many more would he win or lose in the future? They couldn’t even know how much longer they would survive, how many more Christmases they would be able to spend with each other or with their people. One day it might just...end, all because he took too great a risk.

It wasn’t worth thinking about. France shook his head to rid himself of those thoughts and instead hooked his fingers under England’s chin, tilting his face up so that the other nation had a perfect view of his teasing smile.

 “When France is the victor and the poor little loser starts speaking _my_ language? Yes, I’ll admit, I enjoy that very much.”

“Wanker.”

“I don’t think you learnt _that_ word from Normandy,” he chuckled. “Your language is atrocious.” England scowled.

“Mark my words: I won’t lose to you again.”

“Sure, sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to write something about the coronation of William of Normandy on Christmas Day in 1066 (following the Battle of Hastings, as I'm sure you know) but when I was reading about it, I came across something that said he wore his crown when he was at York for Christmas in 1069 to remind the English who they were to submit to. The natives didn't take very well to the invasion, and there were many rebellions, especially up in the north. This led to the 'Harrying of the North', when William repeatedly defeated the rebellions and caused much of northern England to be left as 'waste' because the economy was all messed up. There was also a massacre at York earlier in the year, so the people there didn't like the King very much, unsurprisingly.   
> I debated for a while on whether Normandy would appear as a character or not, because to be quite honest the whole idea of fiefdoms is quite confusing for my poor little mind. In the end I borrowed the idea that he's a half-nation from torch song's excellent story which everyone should read: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1027571  
> The concern with the religious aspect of Christmas is mostly due to the upcoming Crusades, which they would both begin in 1096.   
> Alfred the Great pushed the Vikings back from the Kingdom of Wessex at the Battle of Ethandun in 878AD, which marked a turning point after years of raids. Aethelstan was the first to be crowned 'King of the English', unofficially uniting all the kingdoms into one country.  
> Anyway, I hope this one doesn't seem as clumsy to you as it does to me.


	4. A Black Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tense mash-up, you say? No, it's historic present...haha . aha  
> France - 17/18  
> England - 15  
> It might also be worth noting there is a tiny bit of FraScot in this. Not much though.  
> Somewhere in Europe, 1349

France knew he was in Hell. He’d thought Hell had been at Damascus, spitting sand under the broiling sun while his chainmail scalded his skin, but _oh!_ how wrong he had been. Even watching as his armies were decimated couldn’t compare to this, weakness weighing down his limbs as he struggled to sit up on his makeshift bed.

This really had been a terrible idea. All of Western Europe had been crammed together in a building in the middle of nowhere, away from the comforts of home and, more importantly, away from the other nations who hadn’t yet succumbed to the illness that was overtaking them all. They sat huddled together, coughing and choking through their words, pretending that their laughter didn’t cause them to spit blood or that their lungs didn’t burn with every breath.

France thought that perhaps he was about to die. Perhaps this would be the end of Europe, the end of all these centuries of fighting and invasions, and that they would all eventually surrender to this hellish beast that ravaged their lands. No Roman Empire, no Viking raids, just one by one falling at the feet of the Great Mortality. Rather anticlimactic, really.

Everything that he despised was in this room. It was filthy and dingy, the very air itself polluted with disease, infecting their skin by day and night. In the dark he could hear the pitiful moans of other nations as the pain wracked their bodies, some too weak even to leave their beds. And of course, as far away from him as possible but regrettably still visible, England himself.

The only comfort he could glean from this dire situation was that, if Europe perished, so too would England. His days were spent lying in bed imagining how that might look, watching the imaginary England hacking coughs into his fist, wiping his blood-coated hand on his once white clothes. England on his knees, sobbing into the earth, that blasted red cross stained with mud, and more besides. England…

As it was, England was in a slightly better position than France himself. He had only been putting up with this for a year or so, some corners of his island still clinging onto the last shreds of hope and health. Sitting in the corner by himself, he was wrapped in a thick blanket and whispering to something in his hands, ignoring the scathing looks he was receiving from everybody else.

“Too proud to speak to anybody, probably,” France spat, voice hoarse, before breaking off into coughs. His eyes watered as his chest tightened painfully, and a hand came to rub his back, Spain’s voice floating down to his ears.

“Take it easy, Francia. You need to save your strength for dinner later.” He nodded, brushing his hair out of his face and wincing at the state of his body.

“Dinner. Right. Dinner here, surrounded by death incarnate, rather than the lavish meal they are undoubtedly enjoying back in Paris, where I’m _supposed_ to be. Supposed to be with my royals, with my _rightful king_ ,” he raised his voice, glaring over towards the corner, “rather than that English imposter.”

England didn’t look up, but his eyes flickered briefly in France’s direction before they returned to whatever he was entertaining himself with in his lap. The room was deadly silent.

“Ignore the brat,” Scotland interrupted, also aggravatingly healthy yet somehow twice as dirty as France. “Maybe then he’ll realise that nobody wants him here, and he can go home and die alone like he’s supposed to.”

France pondered that for a moment, his and Scotland’s thoughts syncing up nicely.

“Non, I think I would like to be there, just to watch from the sidelines. It might be quite exciting, watching the light leave his eyes.”

 _And what_ , he thought, _what has happened to us?_ The memories of daisy chains and wooden carvings and a dark green cloak were all buried, hidden away behind recent scars. Now England is fire, is the piercing of skin and a wound that was never given time to heal before he was overtaken by this dreadful plague.

France glanced to the side just in time to see a flash of green before England looked away, and a smirk danced across his lips. Scotland was sitting very close, and while he did have those horrible fuzzy eyebrows, he was broader and stronger than England could ever be.

“It would certainly save me a lot of trouble,” he was saying, and when France rested his head on the other’s shoulder, he could feel his deep voice vibrating pleasantly through his chest. “Wouldn’t have to keep an eye on the wall, waiting for English soldiers to come charging up the glens. We could divide up the land between us.” France hummed in agreement, a hand reaching up to rub over Scotland’s chest. England scowled and turned to face the wall.

“Oui, it would be convenient indeed. We would be able to see each other more often.”

“We could teach those little rats a thing or two, I bet.” Scotland grinned, eyes flashing.

“If we even let them live. I would take everything, and I would have not just Calais, but London, too. London, and Oxford, and Canterbury, and nothing would remain of the ungrateful little _child_ who thinks he can become king of the world, as though winning one battle entitles him to the whole of Europe. _Salaud._ ”

“What gives you the right to speak to me like that?” England bellowed from across the room, rising on weak legs. “I won that battle, and I would be winning more if it weren’t for this sickness.”

England does not speak to him in French, but rather in his own awful language, smirking as he does so. It’s supposedly a sign of defiance, but France knows he’s just being a child. It’s insulting nonetheless.

“You’re all talk,” France retorted, glaring. “You got lucky, that’s all, but next time we’ll make you go home once and for all.” England laughed bitterly, the noise catching in his throat.

“Not a chance. English superiority won that battle, and if your King continues to make such foolish mistakes, it won’t be long until I get what’s rightfully mine.” His lips twisted into something resembling a grin, teeth bared. “England will no longer bow to you, France.”

If France were a weaker country, perhaps he might have found England intimidating then, arms folded across his chest and feet planted firmly on the ground. Even with this sickness, the weakness that is plaguing all of them, he still manages to bear some strength, and among the young and inexperienced of Europe his pride is power.

France knows better.

“Perhaps next time I find my way to your chambers we’ll determine the truth of that statement, hm?” he murmured. There was barely enough time for the comment to register with the shocked bystanders before England launched himself across the room. He seized France by his shirt, yanking the other towards him so that their faces were nearly slammed together, France able to feel his hot, rasping breath against his skin.

“You think this is funny?” England hissed through gritted teeth, the shirt tightening uncomfortably around France’s throat.

“Not at all,” he gasped out, refusing to let the other win as he grabbed at his shoulders and dug his nails in. “I was merely stating the truth, non?” England’s fingers twisted in the shirt and France winced as he heard it tear.

“Don’t lie to me. Not a single word that leaves your mouth holds a shred of truth, not now and never before.”

“And what exactly would _la perfide Albion_ and his fake king know of truth?” England’s eyes narrowed to green slits, his lips pressed into a taut, bloodless line.  “Now, can I expect you to have the decency to let go of me yourself, or do I need to get your brother involved?”

England’s fist unclenched and he slowly stepped back, letting France free again. The taller nation staggered backwards and rubbed at his throat, fingers testing for bruises.

“I won’t give in,” England growled, “even if it takes one hundred years. I _will_ win this.”

“If one hundred years is what you want, _Angleterre,_ one hundred years it will be. The outcome remains the same.”

England looked as though he wanted to add something more, but as he stepped forwards, Scotland moved to meet him, muscly arms crossed over his chest. They glared at each other, eyebrows drawn and casting their faces into shadows. Then England fell back and barked a laugh.

“Whore.”

A hand appeared at his shoulder, tugging him away from the crowd before they could start fighting again, and he followed silently, France’s eyes boring holes into his back.

It was only once they were both back on opposite sides of the room that anybody overcame the shock and dared to bring up what had just happened.

“You slept with him?” Spain asked, voice tinged with disbelief, and Scotland pulled a face. Several other nations in the room shifted awkwardly and looked away. France rolled his eyes, lying back on the bed and fussing over his torn shirt.

“You seem surprised _, mon ami_.”

“I just can’t figure out what you see in him.” They glanced over to see England, sitting quietly beside Portugal, hugging bony knees to a bony chest, his skin grimy and sweaty with sickness. France sighed.

“No, neither do I.”

France turned away, weary from his sickness and still fuming at the indignity of the attack. He didn’t doubt that England would drag him into a hundred years of war or even more, and the thought of having to endure more battleground encounters with the ungrateful, backwards nation was enough to make him sick.

His only comfort was his imagination, and he fell into a fitful sleep, picturing England’s skin dotted with black, hands clutching at his chest as he struggled to breathe, choking in the quagmire of his people. England shackled to the castle wall, arms yanked at odd angles, begging to be allowed to surrender. England, heart pierced by a winged arrow from his own longbow, eyes rolled skyward.

The perfect Christmas gift. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder if Shakespeare coined the green-eyed monster after England himself...
> 
> Anyway, some notes:  
> The Hundred Years' War was begun because the English King Edward III, whose mother was Isabella of France, had a fairly strong claim to the French throne, but the French refused to have an English king, so they made a new rule that the heir had to be descended from male blood, not from the mother. The English were pretty hacked off about this, and to add insult to injury, because they owned Gascony, which was on French land, Edward had to pay homage to the French king. When in 1337 the English tried to resolve this issue, the French decided they wanted Gascony back. To which Edward said No, Fuck You, made another claim for the French throne and went to war.  
> Up to this point the war had gone pretty well for England. They'd managed to win control over the Channel and seize Calais, as well as winning the Battle of Crecy, which was a spectacular military failure on France's part, due to the strength of the English longbowmen and the poor timing of the French.  
> Contrary to what I believed when I started writing this, the Black Death didn't actually officially halt the war, and there were still a few minor skirmishes. However the general lack of available soldiers and other resources meant that very little à la Crecy could be done, hence why these two are in this frankly ridiculous situation. Known at the time as the Great Mortality, the Black Death reduced Europe's population by 30-60%. It reached Western and Southern Europe by 1348 and spread over the next few years. The disease itself was manifested as buboes in the armpits or groin and dark spots on the limbs, as well as fever, vomiting blood and breathing difficulties. Very unpleasant.  
> As for England's brave claims, in 1356 the war would '''start''' again with the Battle of Poitiers, another English victory, but from there onwards it starts to go downhill, and the French win in the end, after which point all the monarchs are different anyway.


End file.
